An archive of ball busting stories taken from the former site bbstories.takethepitch.com

Monday, October 1, 2007

Men Are Such Crybabies (Part Deux)

By hughgee

Think I told you guys about my little run-in with a diminutive part-time ballerina chick, a friend of my girlfriend's, and a general all-around pain in the ass. Okay, so maybe it's another part of the anatomy that she's a pain in. Whatever. The point is, somebody help me, I AM STILL DEALING WITH THIS CRAP OVER HERE!

Guess I should've expected it. Guess I was somehow just hoping that that last little embarrassing 'incident' between her and my girlfriend and myself would just go away. The one about female self-defense and a class she was taking and a certain bet about the durability of balls that I took and I then quickly, oh so hastily lost big time. Yeah, that little incident. Anyway, what was I thinking? The little p/t ballerina girl--who shall remain unnamed, to protect the innocent and maybe not-so-innocent and maybe the just plain unfair and cruel--is my girlfriend's best friend! Of course she's going to still be coming over, and of course she's not going to let it drop, what she did to me, how she humiliated me and made it look so easy. She comes over now and makes fun of me. This has been going on for a coupla months now.

What happens is, the average weekend rolls around, my girlfriend comes over, later on her little ball-blasting blabby-but-oh-so-not-flabby buddy tags along and also shows up. They both lay around my house looking at their fingernails they pinched the crap out of my sack with that one time, and they go on and on chick-talking before finally deciding on what they want to do for their Saturday afternoon without me. Now if it was just that, that's even fine. But no, it's not just that. If I happen to walk by the living room or whatever, the little midget bulbous-thighed ballerina hussy teases the crap out of me, twirls her hair at me, says she's so much tougher than me, etc., and I'm getting sick of it, and guys, I'm sorry but I don't know what to do at this point.

OK, so the bet happened already. You guys know that. I already admitted that. I let the little gal tag me in the nuts half-speed, thinking my machoness could take it, it hurt like hell way deep inside a lot, lot, LOT more than I was expecting. I instantly went helpless and dropped down and stayed that way, even though I'm such a huge big guy next to her; then the girl went on to show my girlfriend something, some strange pressure point spot on my body I didn't know I had but that my Girlfriend and Ballerina girl didn't, then when that spot proved to indeed be so wretchedly hyper-sensitive to even the most minutest of pinchings from even the most delicate of fingers---never mind, that's enough of that. I'm probably turning red at the keyboard here.

At any rate, the first time I knew I was going to have a real serious ongoing problem with this little gal was 2 weeks later when she came over again. Look, I don't know how else to put this, but the little girl is ballsy, okay? She's brassy, she's domineering, she's in-your-face, she's a master of psychological/verbal head games--and she's fricking pint-sized, and she really pisses me off. They were in the living room, ballerina bitchette and my girlfriend, it was Saturday morn. My girlfriend was wearing a bulging black sweater, was sitting upright in one of my blue leather not-so-inexpensive chairs, and as my girlfriend usually slouches, literally from the weight of her breasts, so she was doing.

The other one, Her Little Brassyness herself, was laying kind of diagonally across the chair, head lolled lazily off to the side, I guess you'd call it languidly, with one leg draped over the armrest, tiny little foot dangling and bobbing and dancing around from the piston-like flexings of her overly proportioned thick muscular dancing thigh. Ballerina gal was wearing a pink tie-dye t-shirt, a tad bit oversize for her, black yellow stretch pants, and I have no idea where her shoes were, she apparently maybe came over to my house just in just her girly half-socks only or something, since that's all I actually ever got to see. There was something else I couldn't make out on her motioning sock, attached to them at the top in back, jangling around when she drove her foot up and down, kicking the poor air, but better the air than me, I thought. I just wish they'd both go out and do something, dammit. The one socked foot bouncing bounce bouncing, it was rather hypnotic when you looked, but no, just don't look at it; her other foot was hidden, tucked up under her butt, at least. The butt I've seen before from behind when she walks and...oh those dancing glutes.

Ballerina saw me walk by the living room, on my way to the kitchen, where I was in fact about to attempt to fix my busted kitchen sink, but that's another story. Now, if it was just me, when she started in on me, started teasing me about, Do I want her to kick me again? How embarrassing would that be? Geez, I wouldn't have minded that much, just if it was me only. OK a little I'd still mind maybe. But dammit, I had my friend Mike over; he was supposed to be helping me fix the sink. And folks, I don't really need to be embarrassed badly by a little gal, not in front of a buddy of mine. Well it turned out Mike didn't know jack ass squat about sinks like he told me, so I ended up sending him out for a couple of parts at Ace, more to get him out of my way than anything else, the untruthful asshole.

Not too long after that was when I heard HER calling my name out in the living room, teasing me about how dopey, how dumb did I look when she dropped me two weeks prior, and wouldn't I like to see it again? She knows she sure would. She was totally not serious. She was totally just having fun, talking bawdily for the sake of being vulgar and to tease. But I was sick of it at this point. I got out from under the kitchen sink, went out to the living room, there's my girlfriend, there's her big boobs, there's the bobbing bob bobbing white cotton foot again on the little bitchy one, there's her big giant honking little nose pointed up at me, feigning innocence all of a sudden, huge white teeth underneath her shnozola, big brown laughing eyes at me, trying to outstare me again and winning. By the way, before I go on, yes she's pretty, yes she's cute, yes she dances and all that, but dudes, c'mon, my girlfriend may have a little extra on her, but she's a 38F for goodness sakes--she knows she's got nothing to worry about from nobody. Yikes.

So anyway, I was pissed now. But I'm not stupid. I know ballerina’s only got one move, and I wasn't within her kicking range when I said what I was about to say, leering over and down at her: "Look, just get the hell out of my house, okay? You proved your point; you kicked me in the nuts the last time you were here, and whatever. But just shut up about it, all right? Especially when I got company over!!"

Her little know-it-all face looking up at me gets cartoonishly sad suddenly; little ballerina adopts this sickeningly fake look of having her feelings hurt. Yeah, right, as you'll soon see, she has no feelings to even do that to. She's apparently from Mars and is indestructible. “Oh, is little Baby Hughey sad at me? I so sorry. I so sorry I hurt you, you big baby.”

“Listen, shut up. Just shut up about it, all right? Now just go do something, both of you. Get the hell out of here!” I turned to my girlfriend, instructing her to please take her li’l' friend and go to the mall or something, go do anything, just get this little terror out of my house. Suddenly, as had happened two weeks ago, my girlfriend completely turned on me. I swear it's getting to where, just when I think I know her, I really don't know jack about her. My girlfriend just laughed at me and suggested I 'make her shut up and leave if I was such a big man about it.

Well, I think I told you guys last time, I AM a big man. I'm a competitive bodybuilder. Well, OK, so I'm an amateur still, but still it's competitive, and still I'm a damn giant next to the little ballerina bitch sitting down in my own chair mocking me. Look, it's like this, if you cloned this little ballerina chick and had four of them sitting on the bench bar, I could bench them--and then some. So why is she looking up at me now and saying "Come on, big guy. Come on over here and make me get out of this chair" at me? This is astounding. How galling is this? I know I am turning red in front of her. I also know I am a bit scared, yes I admit it ok, after what she did to me the last time. You just never know, and dang, that hurt pretty bad before. So be careful, watch your balls whatever you do. Just hope I can get through this lifetime without them so much as even being tapped again! But like I said, I'm not stupid; however I was pissed off and I couldn't very well back down at this point, so yes you better believe I approached her, all right. I approached till I was right up over her and on her bobbing little dangerous weapon of a foot--but I was careful to stand to the side, presenting only my side of my hip to her.

“Get up and get out. I'm tired of it. Just go, just go now, okay?”

She just laughs up at me, still staring, still seeing to it that I blink first, and I'm wondering if this super-human muscle-bound feminine dwarf ever blinks, and now she even does one of those nose-honking laughs that means it's real, genuine, uninhibited, spontaneous laughter. Out her big little nose, it sounded like a snork, snork. She covers her nose in her hand. Then she looks quite seriously up at me, deeply up into my eyes. “Hugh, um, why are you standing off to the side like that?”

“I think we both know.”

Ballerina, foot still bouncing all the while, suddenly points to the bouncing appendage. She invites me to look at her little foot, even slowing down its frisky bouncing so I can get a better look. “Look, see what these are?”

Something on the back of her half-sock, I can see them better now.Her sock has a very thin pink and red trim stripe at the top, in kind of alternating pattern. But on the back there are two bimble-bomble looking things, two of what are apparently little yellow cotton puff balls, apparently part of the design of the sock, just to make it look cute or something. But that's not what her story is, of course.

“Look, these are like notch-marks. Every time I get a guy in the balls, I put another pair of these on here.”

I could hear my girlfriend bust up laughing behind me.

Ballerina continued, “Oh, and notice how they're yellow. Guys go yellow around me, so do their balls. Talk about foot power!” She straightens her leg taut for a second, straight up to my ceiling, evincing an incredible amount of dexterity and an even more incredible rippling of steel-banded mini thigh and calf muscles. “Hey, I got another pair of trophy balls on my sock here that's under my butt--Hey, means I must've got a guy once with each foot.” Howling laughter out of both girls.

“That's it. You won't leave; I'm throwing you out of here.”

At this, my girlfriend in the background could be heard, just inviting me to 'let it go' and get back to fixing my sink in the kitchen.

“No dice,” I say, eyes for a second leaving off being transfixed on my little feminine antagonizer. This shit was going to stop and it was going to stop now, I said, more or less in those words. I was still wisely standing sideways, but my eyes straying for just one instant, now that was kind of a dumb thing I did. I never would've thought she could've gotten me so fast, especially not without moving her whole body around in the chair first. But as it turned out, I guess all she did was move her little sonuvabitchin' deadly foot and that's it.

Somehow, I still ain't so sure, she was able to kick around the side of my hip, and have her cotton foot come up and in on me, like a wicked curve ball or something. It was probably the top of her little toes that made the quick, innocent, telltale little BOFF! sound in my trousers upon impact. It emanated throughout the room like a submarine sonar ping. Trouble is, the torpedo had already hit me amidships. It was over. I was over. I now know that when you get tagged in the balls, and when it's a really, really good tag, well there's a quick split second when you don't feel it and you think everything's still going to be okay. Yep. Then the implosions start happening and you sink. Dang, this was no 'half-speed' kick anymore, the bitch. She somehow really nailed me from her awkward position. Felt like I was a little boy; I wanted to cry; 'Mommy! Mommy! A bad thing just happened in my tummy! Mommy, help me, it won't go away, a bad exploding in my tummy keeps on getting worse and worse and worse now! Mommy help! Please help me! I be good from now on, I promise! I always will be nice to her, be nice to the dancing little ballerina girl, I be nice so she won't hurt me no more! I do whatever she says!'

And I hang there, in space, looking down at her. I am hunching over her, she sits and I am momentarily standing but I am the one who is already hopelessly helpless. In fact, it just made what she did to me look that much more easy, seeing her look up at me, smiling, reclining, dimples on both sides of her teeth, a cute yet somehow malevolent sounding little snicker finally emitting from between those teeth. My girlfriend, who saw the train accident from behind, later told me that when I got kicked, the way my knees caved in, they kind of went inwards and knocked together. Maybe that's what was propping me up for what seemed like an eternity of defeated helplessness over my triumphant little tormentor, that bitch! I don't know. All I know is, it felt for that little brief span of a second or two, that I was on parade for her; that she had beat me down and defeated the hell out of me with one brief little flick of her foot (again) and that I was hanging there, a kind of goggle-eyed spectacle of a trophy. She'd make a good little taxidermist, let me tell you.

It's weird when you get kicked real hard down there, fellas. And girls if you're reading this. So different. So different from when it's just a partial blow. It feels like you’re not even of this world or something. Or at least, you don't want to be. You're stuck inside a body that is causing you untold horrendous amounts of pain in its very center, you can't breathe, you can't talk, you feel like you have to take a dump. Dang, it was all systems shut down or something. You want to abandon ship. It's complete and involuntary surrender to whomever or whatever just racked you down there. It's the epitome of defeat, because of its sweeping overwhelming nature, combined with its suddenness.

Especially when you have a five foot tall ballerina girl standing over your curled up wreck of use-to-be hulking body, your involuntary fetal position she just put you in, and then she starts waving her decorative bimble-bombled socks in front of and under your nose. And yes, they did smell. She apparently did indeed wear those socks over here and nothing else; she apparently did have those socks on for quite more time than just that, let me tell you.

“How 'bout these for sexy feminine sweaty feeties, big guy?” she said. She was laughing, yes, when she said it. I could do nothing. I was in my own world of agony, with stinky chick feet in my face. I couldn't talk either. I just had to sit and take it. Who cares, I'm oblivious to the world outside my body. All I can think about is my poor balls and my poor jangled up guts right now. Oh, this is bad, it was so dang bad. Wait. Feel someone getting closer. Ballerina girl. Feel her breath go hot on my cheek. She's whispering in my cheek, in my ear. Her voice croaks when she whispers, if I was a window I'd have steam all over me probably.

“Guess I'll have to get another set of balls for my socks, Hughey. Baby, baby Hughey, baby. Have to sew them right on there. Another notch for me. Thanks for participating. Thanks, big guy. Bigger they are, bigger their balls are, and that means falling faster for longer. Thanks, ha, ha.”

Hear my girlfriend laughing. Wish I could watch her boobs when she's doing it. I can't even get out of this rolled up ball I'm in right now. Here's where they go out and leave me finally. Again.